West and East

Chapter 14

Pussy didn't like tanks, not even a little bit. Alistair Walsh wasn't surprised. The cat had come to take gunfire for granted. Animals sometimes got used to things more easily than people did. Pussy couldn't know what bullets and shell fragments did to soft, vulnerable flesh. She didn't know how lucky she was to be ignorant, either.

Tanks were a whole different business, though. She didn't just hear them rattle and clank. She could see them move. Here was something bigger than an elephant that could-and might want to-squash her flat. Tanks smelled funny, too. No wonder the cat disappeared into the smallest hole she could find.

Regardless of Pussy's opinion, Walsh liked tanks in the neighborhood fine. These Mark I Cruisers seemed a vast improvement over the poor Matildas that had tried to hold off German panzers the winter before. The Matildas mounted nothing more than a machine gun, and a running man could easily keep up with them. They did have thick armor… and they needed it.

These cruisers were a different business. Their turrets packed a two-pounder cannon and a machine gun, while they mounted two more MGs in the front of the hull, one on each side of the driver's position. It was probably crowded as all get-out up there, but enemy infantry in front of them would be very unhappy.

And they could move. They were as fast as anything the Germans had. More than once during the retreat from the Low Countries, English tankers had had to bail out of Matildas, set them on fire, and go back on foot or in a lorry when enemy thrusts outflanked and overran them. If they hadn't, they would have been cut off and killed or captured. In fact, Walsh had seen a Matilda or two in German service, with a prominent cross painted on either side. He suspected he would have seen more if the Nazis liked the clunky little machines better.

Jock's reaction to the Mark I Cruisers was more like Pussy's. "Ah wish the bloody things'd go somewhere else," the Yorkshireman grumbled.

"Why's that?" Walsh asked. "Now that they're here, we can give the Fritzes one right in the slats."

"That's why," Jock said morosely. "Long as we sit tight here, we're safe enough. Oh, not safe, Christ knows, but safe enough. With them buggers around, though, they'll tell us to go forward again, damn their black hearts. Bad things happen when you go forward, by God."

Half a lifetime ago, Walsh had been eager to go over the top-once. Living through that first assault cured him of eagerness forevermore. He was much happier staying in the trenches and letting the Germans come to him after that. Bad things did happen when you went forward. There you were, out in the open, with nothing to protect you but a lousy tin hat that wouldn't keep bullets out anyhow. All these years later, his leg wound still bothered him.

Which meant nothing when the brass hats told you to advance. The Fritzes might rack you up. You own side assuredly would if you didn't follow orders. He was part of that machinery himself. If you didn't go forward because you were battle-wild, you'd damn well go forward because bad things would happen to you if you stayed behind.

"No help for it, Jock," he said, not without sympathy. No, he wasn't eager, either.

Jock nodded. "Oh, Ah know. What'll we do about Pussy, though? Can't take her along-she wouldn't fancy riding in your pack or on your shoulder like a bloody pirate's parrot."

Walsh chuckled. "Chances are she wouldn't," he agreed. "Somebody else will take care of her once we push on, though. Or she'll shift for herself. Cats are good at that, you know. Plenty of birds, plenty of bugs. Plenty of mice, too, with no one setting out traps to keep them down."

"Maybe." Jock still looked gloomy-he often did. "She was mighty peaked when we first started feeding her, though. Mighty peaked."

"We can't bring her along. You said so yourself," Walsh pointed out.

"Ah knows, Sergeant. Don't mean Ah like it," Jock said.

More and more Mark Is came in. Had Walsh been running the show, he would have kept them hidden till the attack went in. Surprise counted. The high foreheads actually in charge of things sent a few of the cruisers forward to see how they did against the German positions most of a mile away.

And the high foreheads learned some things they hadn't known before. Matildas couldn't get out of their own way and sadly lacked firepower, but they laughed at antitank rifles. The Mark Is weren't laughing. Those big bullets pierced their armor with the greatest of ease: not only in the hull sides, but even in the turret, which was supposed to have more metal than any other part of the tank.

The Fritzes had some 37mm antitank guns in their defensive positions, too. A Matilda might even live through a hit from one of those. The cruisers looked far more modern. They had better engines and more firepower. But they burned so easily, the English soldiers started calling them Ronsons. One shot, and they lit.

"What bloody fool designed 'em?" Jock demanded, watching two of the hopeful machines send up black columns of smoke from the fields ahead. The way he said bloody, it had the same long oo as fool. It sounded even more accusing that way. "They won't hold out anything tougher than a rifle round."

"Doesn't look that way, does it?" Walsh said glumly.

"We're supposed to go forward with tanks, eh?" Jock said. "How do we do that if all the tanks blow up afore they get to the Fritzes' trenches?"

"Good question," the sergeant answered. In the last war, the order to advance would have gone out anyway. Tanks not up to snuff? Too bad. The infantry would handle things. That was what it was there for, wasn't it?

Things were supposed to be different this time around. No one wanted another catastrophe like the Somme. With brilliant plans like that, no wonder people started calling generals the Donkeys.

But, just because things were supposed to be different, that didn't mean they would be. Driving the Germans farther away from Paris was high on everybody's list. The French had had an even closer call this time than in 1914. The more frantic they got about dealing with that, the more frantic they made their allies across the Channel.

Walsh did wonder how enthusiastic Neville Chamberlain was about the war. He'd done everything he could to hold it off, even flying to Germany to try to talk Hitler out of jumping all over Czechoslovakia. He might have pulled it off, too, if that Czech maniac hadn't gunned down Konrad Henlein, the Sudeten Germans' vest-pocket Fuhrer.

Then again, it was hard to tell how enthusiastic Chamberlain was about anything. He looked like a constipated stork, and he didn't sound much different. Winston Churchill might be a voice crying in the wilderness of party disfavor, but he was a voice crying in impassioned, exciting sentences. Walsh thought that kind of thing went a long way in wartime. As if anyone gave a damn what a staff sergeant thought!

The order to storm forward got pushed back forty-eight hours. To celebrate, Jock fed Pussy a whole tin of steak-and-kidney pie, the best ration England issued. In Alistair Walsh's biased opinion, it was better than anything the froggies or the Fritzes made, too. Pussy daintily fed, then washed up the sides of her face with a well-licked paw. "She even goes behind her ears," Jock said.

"When was the last time you did?" Walsh asked.

"Beats me," the soldier said. Walsh couldn't remember the last time he'd washed behind the ears, either. Out in the field, you stopped worrying about dirt. What difference did it make? He patted the cat. She rewarded him with a purr. When he stopped, she twisted her head and started licking the man-scent off her fur. How can I catch mice, she seemed to say, if I smell like a gamy old sergeant?

Before the two days were up, the order to advance got postponed indefinitely. No one said it had anything to do with the Mark I Cruiser's deficiencies, but no one had trouble reading between the lines. Jock shared some milk-smooth cognac with Walsh to celebrate.

"Here's to stayin' put!" the Yorkshireman said.

"Here's to," Walsh agreed. He wasn't sorry not to leave this ruined village. It wasn't home, but it also wasn't bad-no, not half. Pussy ambled up, willing to be stroked and begging for a treat. His hand caressed the cat's warm, soft fur. Pussy purred. LITTLE BY LITTLE, Sarah Goldman got used to wearing the yellow star whenever she went outside. She hardly noticed. Hardly anyone else in Munster seemed to notice, either. The Nazis might have wanted to turn Jews into a spectacle, but they hadn't done it.

Aryans were entitled to cut in front of Jews in a queue at any shop. Shopkeepers were supposed to serve Aryans ahead of Jews, which was doubly unfair because Jews had limited hours in which they could go out. The yellow star was designed, among other things, to make that easier.

It didn't happen, not right away. German women took their places behind Sarah when they got into line after she did. No shopkeeper followed the rules to the letter. That surprised her; she knew how orderly the folk of whom she'd once thought herself a part were.

It must have surprised the Nazis, too. A flood of new edicts came from Berlin. No one was to extend Jews any courtesies, no matter what. These people are the enemies of the Reich, and must not be treated softly, newspapers thundered. Always remember-the Jews are our misfortune!

"What did we ever do to them?" Sarah complained over a miserable supper that night. "What they've done to us… But what did we do to them?"

"Nothing," her mother said. "We don't do anything to anybody. All we try to do is stay alive. They don't even like that, and a choleriyeh on them."

"You haven't done anything to them," Father said. He was weary, but contrived to look amused even so. "I haven't done enough-nowhere near so much as I wish I had. But Einstein and Freud and Schoenberg… They've done plenty. They've tried to drag Germany kicking and screaming into the twentieth century. 'Jewish physics! Jewish psychology! Jewish music!'" He did his best to sound like a Nazi plug-ugly bellowing on the radio. His best was alarmingly good. He didn't have a red face and a roll of fat at the back of his neck, but you would never have guessed as much from his voice.

"But what if Einstein's right even though he's Jewish?" Sarah said. "Then Germany will miss out on… on whatever he was talking about." She knew more about the theory of relativity than she did about Zulu, but not much more.

"That's the chance they take," Samuel Goldman said, not without relish. "I don't pretend to understand Einstein, but I'd think twice before I bet against him."

Sarah always thought of her father as knowing everything. So hearing him admit ignorance always came as a surprise. Of course, Socrates hadn't just admitted ignorance-he'd professed it (being a scholar of ancient history's daughter, she knew such things herself). But that was different. Socrates had been-what did the card-players call it? He'd been sandbagging: that was the word. When Father said he didn't understand Einstein, Sarah thought he meant it.

"Jewish physics? What can Jewish physics do that German physics can't?" Sarah picked the wildest thing she could think of: "Blow up the world? That would serve the Nazis right, wouldn't it?"

"It would." Father sighed. "I don't think things are quite so simple, though. It would be nice if they were, but…" He spread his hands. His palms weren't blistered, the way they had been when he first joined the labor gang. Now ridges of hard yellow callus crossed them. He was in better physical shape than Sarah remembered his being-but he slept whenever he wasn't working or eating. How long before he started to break down? And what would happen then?

She didn't want to think about that. Father anchored the world. Without him, everything would be adrift, topsy-turvy. Which, she had to admit, didn't mean such a thing couldn't happen. In the Third Reich, anything could happen to Jews, anything at all. If you didn't understand that, you didn't understand anything.

One of the things that could happen to Jews could also happen to Aryans. A little past midnight, air-raid sirens began to wail. Berlin and other places in the east were safe from bombs during short summer nights: the bombers that had to deliver them would still be flying and vulnerable when light came back to the sky. Not Munster. It lay too close to the French border to enjoy such protection.

"Not fair!" Sarah groaned as she hurried downstairs to huddle under the heavy dining-room table. She wasn't thinking only of geography. Father would have to go out to the labor gang tomorrow morning even if he'd had his sleep shattered. Well, plenty of others would be in the same boat.

That a bomb might land on top of the house never crossed her mind. She'd been in plenty of raids before, and no bombs had hit here yet. That had to mean none could. The logic was perfect… at least till she met a counterexample.

Her parents joined her under there a moment later. Her mother was grumbling because she'd stubbed a toe on the stairs. "Miserable air pirates," Father said. He'd lifted the phrase straight from the Nazi papers. Sarah wondered if he realized what had just come out of his mouth.

Before she could ask him, bombs began whistling down. Even when you knew-or thought you knew-one wouldn't hit here, the sound was scary. Then the bombs started going off. The noise was horrendous. Feeling the ground shake under you was worse. Sarah had never been in an earthquake, but now she had a notion of what they were like.

Antiaircraft guns added their own crashes to the racket. Through it all, Father said, "I think those must be French planes. The engines sound different from the ones the RAF uses."

Sarah hadn't noticed. Even when it was pointed out to her, she couldn't hear any difference. She wouldn't have cared if she could. She just wanted this to be over.

Then several bombs burst much closer than any had before. She screamed. She couldn't help herself. The house shook like a rat in a terrier's jaws. For a second, she thought everything would come down on top of the table. Windows blew in with a tinkle of glass. All of a sudden, she could smell cool, moist outside air-and the smoke it carried.

The raid seemed to last forever. They often felt that way while they were going on. At last, the enemy planes flew off to England or France or wherever they'd come from. Not long afterwards, the all-clear sounded. Father said, "I'd better see if the neighbors are all right."

"Would they do the same for us?" Sarah asked sourly.

"Some of them would," he answered, and she supposed that was so. He went on, "Even my bathrobe has a yellow star, so I won't get into trouble on account of that."

"Oh, joy," Sarah and her mother said at the same time. They both started to laugh. Why not? What other choice did you have but pounding your head against a table leg?

Father's voice joined the shouting outside. Sarah didn't hear anyone screaming. That had to be good. The Nazi government was tormenting Jews. She should have hoped the RAF or the French would knock it flat. But bombs didn't fall on a government. Bombs fell on people. And, even though a lot of those people must have voted for the Nazis back before elections turned into farces, most of them were just… people. They weren't so bad.

After a while, Father came back in. His slippers scraped on broken glass. (What would they do about that? Worry about it after dawn, that was what.) "All right here," he reported. "Those big ones came down a couple of blocks away, thank God." Bells and sirens told of fire engines and ambulances rushing where they were needed most.

"You may as well go back to bed," Mother said. "Nothing else to do now."

After the first couple of air strikes against Munster, Sarah would have laughed at that. Now she nodded. As life since the Nazis took over showed, you could get used to anything. If you were still tired after the bombs stopped falling, you grabbed some more sleep. She heard Father yawn. He'd need every minute he could get. Come morning, he'd be even more overworked than usual.

He'd just trudged out the door when someone started pounding on it. Sarah and her mother exchanged looks of alarm. That sounded like the SS. What could the blackshirts want so early? All sorts of evil possibilities crossed her mind. Would they claim the Goldmans were showing lights to guide the enemy bombers? That was ridiculous-or would be if the SS weren't saying it.

Feet dragging, Sarah went to the door and reluctantly opened it. Her jaw dropped. "Isidor!" she blurted. "What are you doing here?"

"I rode over to make sure you folks were safe," Isidor Bruck answered. Sure enough, a beat-up bicycle stood behind the baker's son. He managed a shy smile. "I'm glad you are."

"Yes, we're fine," Sarah managed. She didn't know what else to say. Obviously, Isidor hadn't ridden across town to check on her mother and father. What were they to him but customers? She'd thought she was something more. Till this moment, she hadn't realized she might be a lot more. She took a deep breath and, without thinking about it, ran a hand through her hair. "Are your kin all right?"

He nodded. "Nothing came down real close to us. But I heard this part of town got hit hard, so I thought I'd better check."

"Thanks… Thanks very much. That was sweet of you," Sarah said, which made Isidor turn red. She added, "It's nice to know somebody-anybody-cares."

Isidor nodded again. "I know what you mean," he said. "We have to take care of ourselves these days. Nobody else will do it for us-that's for sure. To us, maybe, but not for us." As his mouth tightened, he suddenly looked fifteen years older. He touched the brim of his cloth cap. "Well, I'd better get back. The work doesn't go away."

"I'm sure," Sarah said. "Come again, though." He bobbed his head and rode away. Surely it was only her imagination that the bicycle tires floated several centimeters above the sidewalk. CHAIM WEINBERG LOOKED AROUND the battered streets of Madrid. "You know what's missing here?" he asked.

Mike Carroll also considered the vista. "Damn near everything," he answered after due contemplation. "What have you got in mind?"

They were both speaking English. Madrilenos walking by grinned at them. Even more than their ragged uniforms, the foreign language showed they were Internationals. Internationals were still heroes in Madrid-at least to the majority that didn't secretly favor the Fascists. And most of the locals didn't speak English, which gave at least the hope of privacy.

"I'll tell you what's missing here," Chaim said. "A shul's missing, that's what."

"In case you didn't notice, it's a Catholic country," Mike said, as if to an idiot child. "And, in case you hadn't noticed, the Republic isn't proreligion. It's not supposed to be, either."

By that, he meant The Republic does things the same way as the Soviet Union. And so it did. Both had broken the priesthood's long-entrenched power in their respective countries. Even so, Chaim said, "There's a difference between Spain and Russia."

"Oh, yeah? Like what?" Carroll didn't quite say Tell me another one, but he might as well have.

Even so, Chaim had an answer for him. Two answers, in fact: "For one thing, the opposition in Russian's been broken. You can't very well say that here." His wave swept over the ruins, all created by the ever-so-Catholic Nationalists. "And for another, Spain discriminates against Jews. You can't say the Soviet Union does, not when so many of the Old Bolsheviks are Yehudim."

"Yeah, well…" This time, Mike paused in faint embarrassment. And, after a couple of seconds, Chaim understood why. A whole great swarm of the Old Bolsheviks convicted in Moscow's show trials were Jews, too.

"It's still discrimination. Discrimination's still wrong," Chaim said stubbornly. "Before the Republic, it was fucking illegal to be a Jew in Spain. It still is, in Nationalist country. If that's not why we're fighting, what are we doing here?"

"Stopping Hitler and Mussolini and Sanjurjo?" Mike suggested.

"Stopping them from doing what? Screwing over people they don't happen to like, that's what!" Weinberg answered his own question.

Mike Carroll looked at him. "When was the last time you were in a-what did you call it?-a shul?"

"It's been a while," Chaim admitted. His folks had made him get barmitzvahed. He'd quit going right after that. As far as he was concerned, action counted for more than prayer. But the right to prayer was a different story. He stuck out his chin as far as it would go (which wasn't as far as he would have wished). "All the more reason to have one now."

"How do you figure that?"

"Because it's been a hell of a lot longer since any of the Spaniards have been. Because the ones who're still Jews have to pretend they're Catholics when anybody's looking. Because that's wrong, dammit," Chaim said.

"Let me buy you a drink or two, okay?" Mike said. "You need something to wind you down-that's for goddamn sure."

Chaim looked around. He blinked in surprise. "Trust you to go on about buying drinks when there's not a cantina in sight for miles."

"We'll find one. Come on." Carroll turned to a Madrileno. "?Donde esta una cantina?"

He got elaborate, voluble directions, complete with gestures. The Spanish was much too fast to follow, though. The local soon saw as much. He grabbed Mike with one hand and Chaim with the other and took them where they needed to go. Yes, Spaniards would give you the shirt off their back. The problem was, not enough of them had shirts to give.

And were they proud! Mike tried to buy this fellow a drink, but the local wouldn't let him. He hadn't brought them here for a reward, but because he was grateful to the International Brigades. That was what Chaim thought he was saying, anyhow. The Madrileno saluted and bowed and left.

Mike did buy Chaim a drink, and then another one. Chaim bought a couple of rounds, too; Jews had their own kind of pride. After four shots of rotgut, Chaim wobbled when he walked. He was no less determined than he had been sober, though. If anything, he was more so.

"You'll get in trouble," Matt said blearily.

Chaim's laugh was raucous enough to make heads swing his way. "Yeah? What'll they do to me? Send me back to the front?"

"They'll throw you in a Spanish jail, that's what they'll do," Carroll answered. "Those joints are worse than the front, you ask me."

He had a point. Chaim was too stubborn and too plastered to acknowledge it. "I'm going to talk to Brigadier Kossuth," he declared.

"On your head be it," Mike said. "And it will be."

Kossuth wasn't the brigadier's real name. Chaim had heard that once, but couldn't come within miles of pronouncing it; it sounded like a horse sneezing. But the real Kossuth had also been a Hungarian rebel against the status quo. The modern one had glassy black eyes and a tongue he flicked in and out like a lizard. He spoke several languages, and sounded like Bela Lugosi doing Dracula in every damn one of them.

English, though, wasn't one of those several. He understood Chaim's Yiddish, and Chaim could mostly follow his throaty German. "A shul?" Kossuth said. One of his elegantly combed eyebrows climbed. "Well, there's something out of the ordinary, anyhow."

Plainly, he didn't mean that as a compliment. "Why not?" Chaim said. "It's part of the freedom we're fighting for, right?"

Flick. Flick. Chaim wondered whether Kossuth caught flies with that tongue. "More likely, Comrade, it's part of the trouble you enjoy causing."

"Me?" If Weinberg were as innocent as he sounded, he never would have heard of the facts of life, let alone practiced them as assiduously as he could.

Brigadier Kossuth ignored the melodramatics. "You." His voice was hard and flat. "Americans are an undisciplined lot-and you, Weinberg, are undisciplined for an American. Your reputation precedes you."

"So I'm not a Prussian. So sue me," Chaim said. That made Kossuth show his yellow teeth. Prussian discipline was anathema in the International Brigades. They had their own kind, which was at least as harsh but which they-mostly-accepted of their own free will. "I am a Jew. Can't I act like one once in a while?"

"You want to offend the Spaniards." Kossuth probably didn't catch flies with his tongue-there sure weren't any on him.

But Chaim had an answer for him. And when did Chaim not have an answer? "The ones who favor the Republic's ideals won't be offended."

"Oh, of course they will. They don't like Jews any better than anyone else here does. Do you know what a narigon is?" Kossuth said.

Literally, the Spanish word meant somebody with a big nose. But that wasn't what Kossuth had in mind. "A kike," Chaim said.

He wasn't surprised when the Magyar did know that bit of English. Kossuth nodded. "Just so," the brigadier said. "And you want to draw extra attention to yourself here?"

"It's not about extra attention," Chaim said, which held… some truth. "It's about rights and freedoms. Why am I in Spain, if not for those?"

"I don't know. Why are you in Spain? Because you can raise more hell here than back home, I suspect." Kossuth drummed his fingers on the tabletop in front of him. His nails, Chaim noticed, were elegantly manicured. "Even if you do found this shul, how much would you care to wager that you will not attend services for longer than a month-six weeks at the outside?"

That might well have held more than some truth. "All the same," Chaim said.

To his surprise, Brigadier Kossuth's chuckle didn't emit puffs of dust. "Well, go on, then," Kossuth said. "I doubt you can lose our struggle against the forces of reaction all by yourself-though not, I am sure, for lack of effort. Now get out." Thus encouraged, if that was the word, Chaim got. LUC HARCOURT EYED THE THREE REPLACEMENTS who'd just joined his squad with a distinctly jaundiced eye. "Look, boys, try to keep your heads down till you start figuring things out, eh?" he said. "You don't keep them down, the Boches'll blow 'em off-and you won't learn much after that, by God. Right?"

"Right, Corporal," they chorused. One was Louis, one was Marc, and the other, poor devil, was Napoleon. At least he didn't stick his hand between two of the buttons on his tunic. He wasn't especially short, either. Or especially bright-he said, "But we want to kill Germans, Corporal."

"You'll get your chance," Luc promised. "Don't forget, though-they have a chance at you, too. That's not so much fun. Bet your ass it's not."

He stood back from himself, as it were, listening to what came out of his mouth. Damned if he didn't sound like a slightly smoother copy of Sergeant Demange. He hadn't been sanding his throat with Gitanes as long or as enthusiastically as Demange had, but the attitude was there. He didn't like Demange-he didn't think anyone could like Demange, or that the sergeant would acknowledge it if anyone did. But he'd learned how to take charge of other men from him. The method wasn't pretty, but it worked.

Off in the distance-far off in the distance: a couple of kilometers away, at least-a machine gun stuttered. Louis and Marc and even the bellicose Napoleon suddenly looked apprehensive. Yes, things could go wrong up here. This wasn't basic training any more.

Luc grinned at them: a sneering, acrid grin, also modeled on Sergeant Demange's. "That was one of ours, my dears," he said. "That won't kill you… except by accident, of course." The grin got nastier yet. He cocked his head to one side, listening and waiting. Sure as hell, the Germans didn't let the French burst go unanswered. An MG-34 fired back. Luc raised an index finger. "There! That's one of theirs!"

"But they both sound the same," Marc protested.

"You'd better learn the difference pretty goddamn quick, that's all I've got to tell you," Luc said. "Make a mistake there and you won't get a chance to make a whole lot more."

"What is the difference?" Louis asked-he couldn't hear it, either.

"Theirs fires faster," Luc answered. "They can change belts faster than we can change strips, too."

"It sounds like you're saying their guns are better than ours." Napoleon sounded as scandalized as a society matron at an indecent proposal.

"Damn straight they are," Luc said. "Look, the Boche is a bastard. He does all kinds of horrible shit, and he does it in France. But you'll only get killed for nothing if you think he's a stupid bastard. He knows what he's doing in the field, and his engineers know their business just as well."

The new fish gaped at him as if they'd caught an archbishop celebrating a Black Mass. "But-they're the enemy!" Louis sputtered.

"Very good. Nothing gets by you, does it?" Luc sure did sound like Sergeant Demange, and he didn't have to step away from himself to hear it now. "But they're not the stupid buffoons the papers make them out to be. They wouldn't be so fucking dangerous if they were. You get that, sonny?"

"I… think so, Corporal," the raw private answered.

"You'd better. All of you had better. Otherwise, somebody in the Ministry of War will send your family a wire no one wants to get. And you, you'll be a black-bordered photo gathering dust on the mantel, and you'll never suck on your girlfriend's titties any more or try to talk her into jerking you off. Do you get that?"

Louis nodded. So did Marc and Napoleon. Their eyes were big and round as gumdrops. They looked as if he'd hit them where they lived. He hoped he had. He wanted them to live. He also wanted them to learn the ropes as fast as they could. Troops new to the front did stupid things. That could get them killed in a hurry, and it could bring trouble down on the more experienced men who had to keep company with them. Luc didn't want to get killed for no better reason than that Marc, say, was an idiot.

Come to that, he didn't want to get killed at all.

He gave the new men a last once-over, as withering as he could make it. Louis flinched, so he didn't do too bad. Sergeant Demange would have had every one of them trembling in his clodhoppers. Well, they'd meet the sergeant soon enough-too soon to suit them, Luc was sure. "Let's go, you lugs," he said. "Keep your heads down. Don't let the Germans see you moving. They've got mortars and artillery zeroed in about every ten meters. If they start shooting at you, they can hit you. They can hit me, too."

He wished he could have the last handful of words back. He didn't want them to realize he could get jumpy himself. They heard the words, but they didn't hear the tone that informed them. They probably thought he'd give them all a kick in the slats if he got wounded. They didn't know a wounded man just lay there and thrashed and screamed and bled. Well, they'd find out.

Luc led them through trenches to the ruins of a village. Digging like moles, damming like beavers, the Frenchmen had done a lot to improve the ruins. Unless you were very tall, you could move around freely without worrying about sniper fire. There were underground galleries where you could eat and sleep and shelter from artillery fire. It wasn't the Maginot Line, but Luc had been in plenty of worse places.

Half a kilometer to the east, the German lines boasted about as many comforts. If you weren't advancing or retreating, you settled down and made yourself at home.

The new fish exclaimed at what the soldiers dug in here had done. Luc enjoyed eating well and sleeping soft, too. Unlike Napoleon and Louis and Marc, he knew too well that these good times wouldn't last. The Nazis had almost knocked France out of the war with their winter onslaught. They'd grabbed more of the country this time than they did in 1914, and made it harder for England to send help across the Channel. And, unlike Germany, France hadn't had its heart in the war from the beginning.

It did now. Getting your whole northeast occupied would do that to you. And the Germans were fighting Russia now. A lot of Frenchmen with Red leanings had seen the whole war as a struggle between two sets of oppressive imperialists: as none of their business, in other words. But if Hitler threatened the Soviet Union, the font of world revolution, obviously he was a monster who needed suppressing. The Communists were singing the Popular Front song again, as loud as they could.

So, eventually, there would be big pushes forward. They'd leave this place behind. The people who lived here would come back and try to put the pieces together again. None of the offensives yet had been the real thing. But it was coming. And all the horrors that went with a war of movement would come with it.

"Sweet suffering Jesus, Harcourt, why didn't you wipe your ass before you came back here? Look at the dingleberries you brought with you." Sergeant Demange eyed the replacements as if he'd never seen anything so disgusting in his life. The twitching Gitane in the corner of his mouth only amplified his scorn.

"This is Sergeant Demange, men," Luc said. "He commands the section. You'd better listen to him, or-"

"Or I'll fucking well whale the shit out of you," Demange broke in. "Well, you syphilitic scuts, what do they call you?" One by one, the new men hesitantly named themselves. Demange clapped a hand to his forehead. "Napoleon? Merde alors! Well, I won't forget that-unless you get killed quick. Go round up canteens and fill 'em at the well. Go on-move! You never want me to have to tell you something more than once. Believe it, punk. You don't."

Thus encouraged, Napoleon moved. Marc and Louis gaped till Demange found fatigues for them, too. Luc smiled. He'd been on the other end of those growls not so long ago. This was better. Oh, yes. Much, much better.